


ice

by sansast4rk



Series: a song of ice and fire and blood [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, continuation of "fire and blood" but from sansa's POV, jonsa, takes place immediately after episode 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 11:14:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18590131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansast4rk/pseuds/sansast4rk
Summary: There are so many words—so many feelings—that she left unspoken, because it’s better that way. Because even though it may be the last time she sees Jon's dark, caring eyes, and feels his warm, calming embrace, there are still things that are better left unsaid. Even when it’s the last chance she may ever have to say them.(AKA a Jonsa fic based on Sansa's POV immediately after episode 2, right before the Battle of Winterfell)(continuation of "fire and blood"—the same story but from Dany's POV)





	ice

**Author's Note:**

> A few of you guys requested "fire and blood" from Sansa or Jon's POV, so here's Sansa's!
> 
> (by the way, I wrote this with "winter has come" from the GoT soundtrack on repeat, so you should totally do the same while reading to get the full effect)

Her head is spinning and her legs are weak, but she pushes forward anyway. She pushes forward and keeps her mind as steady as she possibly can, because the horn has sounded, the war has begun, and she has to see her family. Even just one last time, if that’s all they have left.

It’s chaos—all of it; the people screaming from fear, the rush of bodies moving towards the crypts, the rush of even _more_ bodies moving the _opposite_ way—towards the battlefield. Husbands and wives and children and siblings crying out their goodbyes to one another as they get pulled apart. Tears, dirt, and the glimmer of armor in the moonlight. It’s all she can see.

But she thinks of her family and focuses on that and _only_ that, because it’s the one thing that will get her through the swarm of bodies that are all doing the same. Panic, worry, doom...they all feel it, because the war is here.

And her family is so far away, too. She knew it was their last night, and yet she’s in the encampment with Theon when the horn sounds. She isn’t with _all_ of her family like she should have been—like she should have been _every second_ when she realized they only had tonight left.

Not that she didn’t _try_ to be with them, though—she did. But Bran wanted to stay at the weirwood tree to prepare, and Arya was _nowhere_ in sight. In fact, none of the guards even knew where she was, and Sansa suspected she was hidden away on purpose, so she didn’t try and hunt her down.

And then there’s Jon, who left after the council meeting and she hasn’t seen since. Like Arya, she assumes he’s hidden away on purpose—maybe to think, or pray to the gods, or even to lay with his dragon queen again one last time.

She knows it’s fake now—she does; he told her so in her study, after she asked him _why_ he bent the knee. It wasn’t for love, it was for the north. It was because even though the _dragon queen_ told him she would fight for him, she wouldn’t _fully_ trust him until he bent the knee, and he _needed_ her to trust him. She doesn’t listen to people she doesn’t fully trust, so if he wanted his family, the north, _all_ of Westeros to survive, he needed her to listen to him.

_“She’s beautiful, I’ll admit it,” Jon told Sansa when she asked, his eyes serious, his breaths shallow but his voice sure, “But I’m not Robb. You told me to be smarter than him, smarter than father, and I was. There’s no time for that when there’s a war to be fought. I lost a brother too, Sansa, and I don’t plan on hurting you with that pain again by making those same mistakes.”_

Even though he spoke those words and she’s felt relief in it _since,_ she still wonders why he’s been so withdrawn since that night, too. Something happened and she isn’t sure what, but she’s even noticed him avoiding Daenerys as well. Avoiding _everyone,_ really.

But he didn’t tell her why, and even though the war has already started, he _still_ hasn’t told her. And he never even pulled himself out of his sullenness long enough to give her a proper goodbye, either. Now he’s probably already on his horse, charging into war, and still they never got the chance to see each other before knowing they may never be able to again.

Theon’s in front of her now yelling her name so she can hear it over the screams of others, and he’s yelling about how they need to find Bran. She mindlessly follows as if her body is unable to move, but her mind is taking over full control because it _has_ to. It has to.

They finally reach the entrance to the godswood, but before they step in, Theon stops her by pressing his hand to her shoulder.

“Go now,” he tells her, breathing heavily from the running, from the adrenaline. “You have time to get back and prepare.”

“But Bran-” she gasps, trying not to let her emotions get the best of her when she _can’t let them_ right now.

“Sansa,” Theon replies, looking in her eyes as if to say _you’re smarter than this._ “I’ll tell him you wanted to. He’ll know. He’ll see it.”

He’s right. She doesn’t have time to run through the godswood now when she _has_ to get back, has to protect her people. And she has a form of peace settle in her when she knows that Bran _will_ know, he _will_ see, and he would want her to leave now, too.

She nods, then, and hugs Theon, squeezing him tightly. “Protect him. Protect yourself.”

“I owe it to the Starks,” Theon tells her, letting out a shaky, terrified breath. “Go.”

Sansa looks at him another moment, taking in yet another brother she’s loved and lost. But unlike losing him in battle as she did with Robb and Rickon, she lost Theon to betrayal. And now, when she’s finally just gotten him back…she’s going to lose him again.

She takes a step backwards, then, before turning to run towards the crypts. She needs to gather everyone left and find them safety, and arm everyone she can. She needs to find Arya, and Gilly, and Little Sam, and—

“My lady,” she hears, snapping her out of her blurred state of worry and fear. She looks up and sees Brienne, and clutches her arms firmly—finding a way to ground herself to reality and not be distracted by the spinning chaos that’s happening around her now. “My king requested that if I saw you or your siblings, to send you to the courtyard. He was headed there himself.”

Jon. He’s still in Winterfell, still waiting to see her. He hasn’t left yet, and the tough shell she was trying to build to get through the upcoming war instantly melts away.

She’ll get to say goodbye to him after all.

“I’ll meet him there before heading to the crypts,” Sansa tells her, trying to steady her panicked breaths. “Are you…”

Sansa gulps, unable to say it out loud. But her eyes drift to the walls surrounding Winterfell, thinking of the battlefield that lies beyond it, and how Brienne was headed _towards_ it.

“Yes,” Brienne nods, holding her head high. “And I have to leave now, my lady.”

“We’ll win,” Sansa tells her, but even she _herself_ doesn’t believe it when it comes out of her own mouth. But it feels good to say it anyway, and to have hope in something—even when it seems impossible.

“Yes, my lady,” Brienne nods, and Sansa sees she has a gleam in her eye—but it’s not of fear. It’s as if they both know her statement isn’t true, and Brienne’s reply isn’t believable, but she’s still oddly content with standing on the frontline to save her people anyway. “We’ll win.”

They smile sadly, then, and Sansa gulps. After everything they’ve been through together, she can’t even say goodbye, because it would make it all too real.

Brienne nods then, before turning around to leave. She can’t watch her go, either, because she knows there’s no time, and it would hurt her worse to do so anyway. There’s no time, because she needs to get to the courtyard to find Jon, and see him again; to take in his smile one last time, and his gentle words, and to see if he gives her a _real_ goodbye now that he knows he may never see her again.

She wonders how she’ll feel when she sees him now, too, at the end of humanity—at the end of noble houses, of thrones and kings and queens, and at the end of all life _itself_ if the army of the dead win.

There’s been times where she’s looked at Jon and studied him—his eyes, his words, his movements when they’re alone—that have made her breath shallow and her cheeks burn with shame. A deep, _paralyzing_ shame because of things that she buries her want of _so deeply_ that it only ever resurfaces when she’s safe in her bed at night, and she can pretend the humiliation of wanting something so evil—so _perverse_ —can be erased again in the morning.

But she’s never allowed herself to think about it for too long, and she always stops herself when she does. Because he’s her brother and she’s his sister, and he could _never_ see her in that way. Which also means that _she_ shouldn’t see him in that way, either.

“Sansa,” she hears beneath a heavy exhale, and turns to see Jon there in the courtyard—relief filling his expression. He’s in full armor, ready for battle, and she has to pretend he isn’t saying goodbye, and that she _doesn’t_ know that he’s going off to war as soon as they part. “I told Brienne t-”

“She found me,” Sansa gulps, taking in an unsteady breath. She stays strong, though, and doesn’t show her vulnerability. He nods and lowers his shoulders, looking down at the ground.

“Where were you? I looked everywhere. I found Arya and Bran, but I couldn’t find you,” he clenches his fist at his side with nerves, then relaxes them when he realizes his anxious reflex.

“I was with Theon,” she replies with an exhale, trying to keep her mind from racing with all of the disorder surrounding them. “At the encampment.”

Jon opens his mouth to reply—seeming shocked or confused by her answer—before he shuts it again and doesn’t say what was on his mind. He actually doesn’t end up saying anything at _all,_ so she continues.

“But he’s with Bran now in the godswood, as we discussed at the meeting.” she breathes out, her palms itching with nerves at her sides. She wants to hug him, and feel him close, because she isn’t sure she’ll ever be able to again. But she stands her ground instead.

Jon nods, and seems like he wants to tell her something—or _ask_ her something, maybe—but he never does. He just stands there without a reply, still.

What does all of this matter, anyway? It doesn’t. They should be embracing, and expressing their goodbyes, but they’re talking about Theon instead—not about how much they’ll hope and pray for each other’s safety.

But then again, her goodbyes with Jon could never be the same as her goodbyes with Arya or Bran, could they? Not because he’s her half brother and not her _full-_ blooded sibling like they are, no; it’s because he doesn’t feel like her brother at all. It’s because she longs to see him _so passionately_ fight with her about all of the stupidly-honorable things he believes in one last time, and see him look at her like he _cares_ one last time, and hear him tell her how much she means to him _one last time._ It’s different—it’s _all_ different—and she can’t explain why. And she can’t explain why she has to pretend she doesn’t care as much with him when she lets it _all_ show with Bran and Arya. She can’t explain any of it, and she refuses to face the truth of _why_ it’s different. Or maybe she just _wants_ it to be different with him, because that would make her guilt more tolerable. Because no matter the answer of _why,_ she knows it’s wrong. And she’s wrong for feeling it.

But it seems like _he_ doesn’t know how to deal with this all, either. Maybe they’re just good at reunions, but never goodbyes—and when he left her _(all alone)_ for Dragonstone all those months ago, that showed clear proof of it. It had been too sudden—as if he avoided giving a real goodbye on purpose.

But that’s when he knew he’d see her again. And they aren’t sure of that now.

So if he won’t say anything, even if it’s something meaningless, _she_ will. Because even if it _is_ something that’s of no importance, she still wants to hear his voice _one last time._

“Did you say goodbye to Bran and Arya?” she asks, then pauses _immediately_ after—lowering her voice as she gulps. She doesn’t want to say: _“did you tell them goodbye since we most likely won’t make it out of this war alive?”,_ so instead she asks, “Just in case?”

“Aye, I did,” Jon gulps with a nod, his chest expanding as he takes in a deep, anxious breath. “Just in case.”

She looks at him and swallows back the lump in her throat, letting herself take in the curve of his jaw, the scars from past battles he’s won, the softness of his eyes. She doesn’t want to forget _any_ of it. Just in case.

Jon seems to be doing the same; looking at her like he wants to remember every detail, every expression, every word. He knows that this is the last he’ll see of his family if they lose the battle, so neither question each other’s terrified stares. They don’t want to forget, and both understand that without having to speak it.

The silence settles between them when they both know it shouldn’t. They’re just so unsure of how to deal with the pain and the loss of it all, that somehow the paralyzing fear translates into a complete lack of words.

She’s scared and so is he (even though they both try to hide it), but she _knows_ they can’t waste this time. He must be thinking the same, too, because when she reaches out for him suddenly, he’s already waiting with open arms.

She crashes into him and throws her arms around him tightly, clutching his shoulders, his neck, his hair— _anything_ that will bring him closer to her.

He holds her tightly too, and she can feel his scared, heavy breaths against her neck, her skin. The scared, heavy breaths he wouldn’t let out until he knew she couldn’t see his face, and couldn’t see how terrified he really is.

She doesn’t want to pull away, but the war is drawing nearer every _second,_ and everyone else is either in the crypts or on the battlefield—the places where _they_ are both supposed to be right now, too. They stay wrapped in each other, though, until they both know it’s only wasting time—time where they could be preparing themselves.

But what could a few extra minutes help in the war when she’d much rather be spending it enveloped in someone she loves? Especially when it will all probably end up the same, since they both know those extra minutes of preparation won’t win them the war.

Once their hug ends, Jon presses a lingering kiss to her forehead, keeping her close. Then his own forehead presses to hers, and he sighs out a shallow breath as he shuts his eyes, letting it all wash over him for as long as he possibly can.

That feels different, too. The way he takes in shaky, uneven breaths (and she can _feel_ them) as his forehead presses to hers, and how he squeezes his eyes shut so he can enjoy the closeness of family _one last time._

Did he do this with Arya? Bran? Did he pull them as close as he could, holding them there, pretending none of it was real for a few moments so he could enjoy it fully? Did he press his forehead to theirs, too, and let his breath collide with their own like he is now with her?

If he didn’t—if he’s only done it with her—what does it mean? Could it all be different for him, too?

But the guilt hits her again—the guilt of taking his innocent goodbye to her and turning it into something twisted just because she wants it. Even at the end of the world, when it’s the time to forget all about shame and regrets, she still hates herself for it. For ever even _thinking_ it in the first place, and how she hasn’t been able to look at him in the same way ever since—the guilt of it all ruining the way she speaks to him, and acts around him, and even ruining the way she _parts_ with him in a time of war.

So she pulls back then and looks at him, refusing to turn this into something it isn’t—something it never _could_ be.

“Stay alive, Jon,” she whispers, leaning back slightly to look in his eyes. They dart between his, and she swallows back the words she wishes so badly she could say to him. “Please just stay alive.”

“I didn’t know if I’d ever have a reason to fight again. To stay alive,” he gulps, looking at her with soft, caring eyes, and speaking with a gentle, kind voice. “But I do now. I’ll fight for you, and Bran, and Arya. And for the north. For Winterfell. For our home.”

She feels a wave of pain crash through her then, thinking: _this is it—this is goodbye._ And it’s quite possibly the last she’ll ever see of Jon Snow: the man she never allowed herself to fully love.

She forces a smile, then, and pushes back the tears that she feels springing to her eyes. She breathes out the ice-cold winter air, and squeezes his hand tightly in hers, whispering out, “The pack survives.”

“Aye, the pack survives,” Jon replies, and they’re both smiling now. But it’s sad and full of fear, and she can’t breathe, or think, or _fathom_ the fact that this is the last time she might ever see him.

She nods sadly at him when she knows he has to leave, restraining herself from letting out all of the emotions she’s been attempting to suppress for _so long_ as he parts from her. Their hands are still clasped tightly together until he’s far enough away from her that they slip from her grasp. And then he walks away and mounts his horse without another word—only giving her a small, sad smile, before he turns the other way and exits the gate.

She stands there and watches him go, because she _has_ to. She instantly turned away and left Brienne and Theon, because she said everything she needed to say to them. But with Jon, she didn’t— _couldn’t_. There are so many words—so many _feelings_ —that she left unspoken, because it’s better that way. Because even though it may be the last time she sees Jon’s dark, caring eyes, and feels his warm, calming embrace, there are still things that are better left unsaid. Even when it’s the last chance she may ever have to say them.

And now as she watches him ride away to battle on his horse, she takes one last look at him, one last inhale, before she heads to the crypts—never telling him of all the horrible, twisted feelings she’s had ever since Castle Black.

**Author's Note:**

> would you guys be interested in Jon's POV before episode 3 airs? let me know!


End file.
